


Eucharist

by stonecarapace



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Dream Sex, Guro, M/M, Vore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-05 00:47:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecarapace/pseuds/stonecarapace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>M. Madeleine takes his tongue first. It does not even hurt.</i> Javert dreams of being transfigured.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eucharist

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kinkmeme, edited slightly.

It is dark outside, long past dusk, long past the time that Javert should be in Monsieur Madeleine's office. He is here. He is standing by the window, and Monsieur le Maire is behind him, several meters away, and they are alone. The streets outside are black. The lanterns inside suffuse the room with a sinuous orange glow. 

"It is what you deserve," M. Madeleine says.

"It is what I deserve," Javert repeats. 

"Come here." 

Javert obeys, turning, and the room turns with him, so the window is always in his line of sight, so the window pours liquid darkness into the room. There are papers on the walls, and they rustle as he approaches M. Madeleine. He wears the chain of his office, and his arms are open, welcoming, kind. His face is in shadow. Javert walks until he is in reach of those open arms, and then he stops, afraid to step closer. The orange light shivers. There is a fireplace to his right, and it is lit, and there is a cauldron hanging over the flames. 

M. Madeleine embraces him. A stirring begins in him, a deep fear and longing, a need that starts in the spine. The embrace remains, becomes intimate and lush; M. Madeleine's kind hands stroke down his back and up to the back of his neck, cradling his skull as if it is precious instead of what it is. They kiss. 

Javert can taste copper. 

The wet darkness laps at their boots. The fire burns. 

"Be still, love," M. Madeleine whispers. No one has ever called Javert that. No one ever would. He does not think of that. He obeys, his hands at his sides, his mouth open for M. Madeleine to take. "Be still. Let me have you."

"Yes, Monsieur." 

M. Madeleine takes his tongue first. It does not even hurt. They are kissing, and then Javert's tongue is drawn into his mouth, and then there is a sharp snap, and blood fills his mouth and mingles with spit. M. Madeleine pulls back, and his face drips with blood, and he chews slowly and swallows. 

"Delicious," he murmurs, as a lover might. When he kisses Javert again, the blood runs down Javert's throat.

He presses Javert down onto the desk. His teeth sink into Javert's lips, and Javert bucks his hips in response, his whole body singing with anticipation. But he does not bite through. He drags his teeth along Javert's bottom lip and then slides away. His strong hands tear off Javert's clothing. He should tremble to be exposed, but this is Monsieur le Maire, this is Monsieur Madeleine, this is an angel, this is the closest Javert will ever come to God.

M. Madeleine takes a long, luxurious bite out of his throat. Tastes tentatively at his shoulder, then rips the muscle with his teeth. Javert cannot feel the pain. He is fully erect, and palms at M. Madeleine's bloody face, twists his fingers in M. Madeleine's hair, begs wordlessly, supplicates himself as the blood drips down his throat.

M. Madeleine takes him lovingly. It is more intimate than sex, this devouring, these kisses that end with blood and teeth and a ripping like cloth. M. Madeleine is strong enough, rips the sinew from his bones as easily as a tiger might; he is ravenous. He sucks at Javert's hardened nipple and then kisses down his soft belly. Javert's cock is hard, and his arousal is pounding through him, more pressing than the pain, more relevant than the blood that drips and drips down his throat and slicks him and spills onto the desk. M. Madeleine's teeth sink into the soft flesh of his stomach, and Javert cries out; his entrails collapse out and M. Madeleine buries his face in them, moaning, nipping and sucking, and then he is swallowing them down; he is emptying Javert of everything that he was and bringing him to new heights within M. Madeleine—a communion turning the foulness of Javert into the starlight of Monsieur le Maire. 

M. Madeleine picks up what is left and drops him into the pot, then climbs in after him. There is not enough space for them both, and the heat is unbearable, and Javert is burning alive, is being razed down to nothing. M. Madeleine is untouched by the heat, takes bites from Javert's thighs and from his shoulders and neck, tears a bite out of Javert's cheek. Then he kisses Javert, and kisses him, and drinks the blood in his mouth like wine, and his hands seek Javert's chest, dig into his rib cage, split him open—split him until his heart is exposed.

"Do not be afraid," he whispers, and he gently closes his lips over that racing heart.

Javert is still coming when he wakes.

He shows no sign of his thoughts throughout the day. He gives his report at the cusp of sundown, and does not falter at the lantern light that suffuses the room in an orange glow. He studies M. Madeleine's mouth, the flash of white teeth, the pink tongue.

He patrols for several hours more, and goes home, and takes his time undressing.

He bites his tongue until a copper taste fills his mouth, and he thinks of the shallow truth of those white teeth and that pink tongue, and he spends.

He is unchanged.


End file.
